


Icarus Abides

by neaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Episode Related, Fallen Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neaf/pseuds/neaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the people you lose are the people you need the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus Abides

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue/alternate universe ending to address what happened to Cas after 5x18 Point of No Return, written at the time it aired (and completely jossed by the canon episodes that followed, of course).

They pulled into the Westcourt Inn sometime after eight, checked in and idled up to the faded door of room twelve without so much as word. With the engine off, their boots made percussion on the gravel and the pavement as they hauled their bags from the trunk and slung each over a sunken, weary shoulder. 

The vending machine by the parking lot reminded Dean of one that he once prayed beside, a long time ago. The only time he ever had, really. 

With the door open, they were hit in the face by the familiar stale, sickly-sweet smell of yet another cheap motel room – ‘your home on the road’, the pamphlet by the door boasted proudly.

Dean threw his bag on the window-side bed and sat on the edge, burying his face in his hands and rubbing calloused fingers roughly over his closed eyes. 

After peeling off his jacket and hanging it over the chair, Sam watched him worriedly for a moment before he let his gaze fall to the floor. It had been too long, a week now, and no word. He fumbled through his pockets for his phone.

“He won’t answer,” Dean muttered, his voice muffled through the hands still pressed to his face.

Sam winced, but dialed anyway. 

The voicemail message had made him smile the first few times – but now, it just left an ache in his chest. Just once, he wanted to hear a name on the other end instead of those familiar, confused ramblings. Even if the phone never picked up again, it would at least give them some hope to cling to.

Sam tried not to notice Dean digging around in his duffel for that all-too-familiar brown paper bag as he dialed another number. 

“Bobby? It’s Sam.”

Dean didn’t look up as he fished a chipped hotel-name branded glass from under the sink and poured himself a drink. 

“Nothing? What about Adam?”

Dean took a long sip, closing his eyes against the burn.

“Alright, thanks Bobby. Call us if-”

A car trailed past then, throwing a wave of light across the window, suspension squeaking violently as it trailed off into the night. 

Dean couldn’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but he knew exactly what it was saying.

“No – I know. Thanks Bobby.”

Sam sighed and clicked his phone shut. With all the grace of a falling tree, he flopped in a heap on the desk chair, his frame sagging. 

“Told you to stop calling, didn’t he?” Dean kept his eyes on his drink.

With his shoulders hunched and his face downcast, Sam looked like a scolded child. “He’ll call us if there’s any news.”

Dean chuckled humorlessly into his glass, downing the rest of the amber liquid. 

Sam bent forward, leaning heavily on his knees and pushing his hands through his hair. His eyes unfocused and focused again, wandering aimlessly over the mud stain silhouettes embedded in the pea-green carpet. There had to be something they hadn’t thought of. 

No word from Bobby, nothing from Chuck. No omens, no angels, no demons. The eye of the storm was, as ever, the most impossible place to withstand. It was the sheer nothing of it that ate your patience away, piece by piece, and seemed to go on forever – until you got thrown back into the full force that was the other side of the storm, weary and worn down to your soul from the waiting.

Sam glanced to his phone, his eyes pleading for the obnoxious default ringtone to put an end to their torment. 

“You hungry?” Dean asked, breaking the silence and making Sam jolt in his seat. A mocking smile crept across Dean’s face. 

Sam threw his best bitchface at his brother, and then softened. “Yeah. There’s that diner we passed, about fifteen minutes back down the road.” Sam rose, pulling his jacket from the chair back. “I’ll go, I could use the drive – clear my head.”

Dean’s brow lifted, but he made no comment. He’d passed the point where his heart thundered in his chest at the thought of Sam driving off to meet the devil. There was a promised faith between them now, and he would keep that promise. It was owed.

Sam scooped up the Impala keys from Dean’s bed, and headed for the door. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied wearily, reaching down for the bottle again to refill his glass. 

The door swung shut with a rattle and thump, spurting little clouds of white dust from the cracks in the plaster of the wall. As he strode out into the icy night, Sam pulled his collar up around his face. The vending machine in the lot clicked and started humming violently, sending echoes across the dew-damp asphalt. 

He huffed out a breath, watching the steam rise and dissipate as he paused beside the car. There was nothing, now. Nothing more he could do. As he glanced back at their dimly lit hotel room, his face finally fell to match the weight in his chest, like a slow spreading fire through muscle and bone – composed of undefined loss and helplessness, and that last half a handful of hope. 

He leant on the car, arms akimbo across the cold metal roof, face buried in his hands between, and his mind fell to the familiar subconscious task of begging the universe for mercy, and help.

He felt the knuckle-tap from the inside of the car window in his belly, which was pressed against the glass. Startled, he backpedaled two steps, eyes wide, before he realized that there was a smiling face behind the window and locked door of the Impala. 

Sam fumbled for the keys just as the loud _thunk_ of the unlocking mechanism sounded, and the driver’s side door swung open with no assistance. 

He creased his brow in confusion, unable to keep himself from staring, open-mouthed, at the intruder.

“Come on, kiddo,” the smaller man said, patting the driver’s side seat. “I don’t have all day.”

Wary, Sam stumbled slowly forward and stopped, wondering suddenly what the hell he was doing. He considered running, for a brief moment, but the bite of the cold air prickled his cheeks, and with a shrug he turned and slid into the car. Pain shot through his scalp as it connected with the frame, and he winced violently as he recovered from catching the side of his head on the top edge of the door. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, so he pulled the door shut behind him all the same.

His unexpected companion looked entirely too amused for Sam’s liking. “I like to think of that as karmic punishment for your audacious and nonsensical tallness.”

Sam glared, and rubbed the side of his head. “Gabriel?” His voice came out louder than even he expected it to. “What the hell? Are you-?”

“Relax, Godzilla.” Gabriel held up both hands. “Not here to play this time, promise.” He made a show of crossing his heart.

“Then what the hell do you want?” Sam was angry now. This was exactly the last thing they needed.

“Whoa, what’s with the attitude?” The archangel tugged his jacket around his neck defensively. “You’d think it was the end of the world or something.”

Sam’s glare intensified. 

Gabe put on his best innocent face. “What? Too soon?”

“I swear, if you don’t get the hell out of here _right_ now-”

Gabriel considered the younger Winchester for a moment, smiling. “You know, kid, I could’ve just flown on by here. But no. Winchesters in trouble,” Gabriel gestured a sweeping hand from Sam to the motel room, “and here I am. Little bitta gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”

Sam laughed in disbelief. “Gratitude? Last time we met you turned me into a _car_.”

“Seriously, that’s what you’re holding a grudge about? Not the commercial or the game show or the dodgy surgery? Your priorities are _messed up_ , my friend. But no,” Gabriel held up a finger, “I don’t mean gratitude for that. I mean for this.”

Sam’s forehead creased in confusion. “This _what_?” he asked, exasperated. 

Gabriel’s face settled from his excited, child-like expression into one Sam hadn’t seen before. It almost looked like … 

“Found something,” he said, interrupting Sam’s train of thought. Gabriel huffed a breath on his knuckles and comically polished them on his jacket. “Think it might belong to one of you.” A grin spread across his face, and he lifted his hand, sliding his thumb up as a loud _click_ filled the car. 

From the hotel room a brilliant white light flashed, and filled the lot from end to end. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared, and the huge crash that accompanied it succumbed to the silence. 

Sam shifted wildly in his seat, groping for the door handle to get out and back to the room.

“Hey, kid,” the voice came from behind him once he’d levered himself out the door. He wheeled around, bending and peering back into the car. 

Gabriel smiled, almost tenderly. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.” 

And with that, he was gone.

Stunned and not just a little unsure, Sam locked the car as quickly as he could manage and sped back to the hotel room. “Dean!” he shouted, as the door flew open and struck the sidewall with a thundering crack, “are you-?” His mouth snapped shut at the image in front of him.

Dean had a bare arm slung around his neck, and was hauling a semi-naked figure from the floor. 

“Cas?” Sam asked, gobsmacked.

“Help me!” Dean begged, his voice dry and cracking. 

Sam was moving before Dean could even begin to lift the angel, and had a hold of Castiel’s feet as Dean stood, guiding them towards the nearest mattress. 

Sam swallowed hard when he was finally able to take stock of the figure on the bed. The sigil, carved into Cas’s chest in front of him a week ago, was puckered and angry there still, and caked with dried blood. Other smears of blood trailed down his abdomen, and on the inside of his exposed left arm and hand. His right arm remained tangled and invisible beneath the crumpled heap of his shirt, jacket and coat, which clung to his shoulder haphazardly. Dean had already vanished to the bathroom where Sam could hear the faucet shuddering, and cupboards creaking open and thumping shut with careless speed. 

“Stitches?” Dean asked as he emerged from the bathroom, towel over his shoulder and a bowl of hot water in his hands.

Sam shifted, still a little stunned, and leant over the bed to inspect the wound. “No, it’s not that deep. Besides, when he comes to, he can heal himself – right?”

From the moment Sam had bolted back into the room, Dean’s eyes had been huge and flickering with a wild kind of fear. He couldn’t hide it, couldn’t cover it fast enough for Sam not to see, and it peeked through his determined, steely expression again now. “I don’t know,” Dean admitted. 

Sam pressed his lips together tightly, his face riddled with sympathy and concern. Perched on the edge of his own bed, he watched Dean work, trying not to hover too closely as his brother began to clean up the blood. 

Dean’s hands moved quickly, dipping the towel in the bowl and wiping away the caked streaks with gentle pressure. He stopped to disentangle the trapped right arm from the bloodied and bunched up clothes, and piled them on the floor by the bedside table before turning back to keep working on cleaning the wound. 

Eyes closed, Castiel remained motionless. Sam had to watch carefully just to catch the subtle rise and fall of his chest. _At least there's that_ , he thought. _He's breathing. Kind of._

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean said suddenly, angrily, still working fiercely at his task. Sam wondered if he’d meant to say it aloud.

“He just appeared with the white light?” Sam asked after a moment, then, catching Dean’s enquiring expression, explained: “I saw it from the car.”

“Yeah,” Dean admitted, “it was just – bang. Flash. And he fell from the freaking ceiling, like it just opened up and spat him down.”

Sam nodded, looking down. His hands clasped together as he hunched forward over his knees and sucked in a breath, abruptly, to confess. “It was Gabriel.”

Dean’s eyes shot up, and his hands stopped. “What?’

“He was waiting for me, in the car,” Sam admitted. “He’s gone now. But I never left the parking lot.”

“What did he say?” Dean’s voice was demanding, and dripping with obvious resentment.

Sam half-shrugged. “Said he wasn’t here to play around this time – he just said he had something of ours. Then he clicked and – well, Cas.” He waved a hand at the bed.

Dean’s eyes flicked back and forth rapidly as he processed the new information, his face a mirror of Sam’s earlier confusion.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam smiled a little, “it’s a little strange. But, I don’t know... Something tells me we can trust him.”

“It’s a _lot_ strange, Sam,” Dean countered, and dipped the towel in the bowl of now rust-coloured hot water. “We’ve never had a reason we could even _remotely_ trust the guy, and after everything he’s put us through – what makes you think he’s gonna start doing us favors now?”

“You didn’t talk to him, Dean, he was – I don’t know,” Sam’s face scrunched as he looked for the right word. “Different.”

Dean’s brow shot up and he stared at his brother. “Really?” He tipped his head to the side a moment, and pursed his lips. “Wow, Sam. I didn’t peg him as your type but hey,” he let his eyes drop back to the bowl, “mazel tov.”

“Very funny. I’m serious, Dean.” Sam’s patented bitchface made a speedy return.

“Sure you are.” Dean’s fake enthusiasm voice had always grated on Sam’s nerves. “You just make sure I get an invitation, that’s one I don’t want to miss.”

Sam glowered and stood. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.” The reply came without hesitation. 

He couldn’t help it – a smile crept to the side of Sam’s mouth. There was a part of his Dean in there, still, holding on through the alcohol and the fear. That piece of Dean was more absent this week than it had ever been – and Sam knew, now, why it had resurfaced. There was hope again. They’d had a win, tonight. An even the small victories were worth celebrating when you were living through the end of the world.

“You still want food?”

“God yes,” Dean sighed, gently pressing the last unstained corner of the towel into a bloody triangle cut. “But just get food. Don’t go violating my baby with your angel boyfriend. I know all the cool kids are doing it, but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

“Die in a fire,” Sam muttered, still smiling to himself, as he located the car keys yet again and headed out the door. 

“Maybe next time.” Dean rolled his eyes heavenward for a moment before he shouted over his shoulder: “Use protection!”

“Shut. Up.” Came the drawn out response through the door.

Dean chuckled to himself, and as the growl and rumble of the Impala’s engine faded into the night, he carried the towel and bowl back to the bathroom, throwing one over the edge of the tub and tipping the other into the sink.

As the rusty water sloshed down the drain, he froze, a sudden chill coming over him. Flashes of blood and metal sparked in his reflection, and he forced his eyes away from the mirror. The bloodied towel caught his eye, and he knelt without realizing, tracing a finger over the red-brown streaks. He forced his eyes shut, pressing his lips together in a tight line and willing the flashes away. The box knife at the warehouse. The screaming, scraping and squelching orchestra of the pit. 

Treading carefully, clinging to the towel rail and the doorframe for support, he made his way out of the bathroom and back over to the bedside, where he bent to gather the pile of Castiel’s clothes. As he stood, he caught sight of the angel’s sleeping face and stilled instantly. He tried to move, but felt a weight anchor him to the spot – as though his chest had been hollowed out completely in a fraction of a second. His mouth fell open as he let his eyes drift over Castiel’s features, his pale lips, the one tiny curl of hair ever apart from the rest that fell at his temple, and shrouded eyes twitching occasionally now beneath their lids.

Dean had no idea how long he simply stared, balled up clothes gathered in his arms and pressed tightly to his chest. The whole time he was cleaning him up, he hadn’t looked up at his face once. It was a survival thing, he knew. It was just a wound that needed cleaning, like every other post-hunt ritual. It was a job that had to be done, and done without this – this soul stopping hollowness that Castiel’s broken form in its entirety had imposed on him. Because he knew, now. One look at that face, and he knew exactly what his latest mistake had cost.

He buried his face in the clothes and closed his eyes tight, trying to calm his breathing, to push down the bile in his throat. The smell hit him then, the faint scent of rain on fresh earth undercut by the coppery smell of blood. He turned and dumped the clothes on the desk violently, heaving ragged breaths in and out. With a sharp kick and a cry of rage, he shattered the leg of the desk chair and hunched over, hands on his knees, trying to breathe. 

“Dean?”

His eyes shot up, wide and surprised, at the sound of his own name. Castiel hadn’t moved from the bed, but his eyes were at half-mast, and his lips parted. 

He groaned Dean’s name again, and in a beat Dean was by the bed. “I’m here, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes swept the ceiling, unfocused and glassy. “Wh- Where?” he managed.

Dean swallowed and looked sideways at the pamphlets by the door. “Westcourt Inn, a motel room – you’re safe, Cas,” he hurried to explain. “I – we’ve got you.”

Cas blinked, bleary eyes searching Dean’s face. “What happened?”

“We went to save Adam. You went in to the warehouse, like a badass mother.” Dean explained with a sad, but affectionate smile. “You took out five angels with the sigil.” He inclined his head towards Castiel’s bared chest.

Cas tried to push himself up onto his elbows to inspect the damage, but winced and grunted in pain before he could move more than a few inches.

“Easy, easy,” Dean’s hands went straight to Castiel’s shoulders, easing him back down onto the mattress.

“Wh – Why am I … ?” his voice trailed off, then, and the confusion on his face began to fade into realization. 

Dean swallowed hard, letting his gaze fall to the floor. 

“What have they done to me?” Castiel demanded, his voice a dry rasp, his eyes burning with unspoken terror.

Dean closed his eyes, fighting down the gnawing, raw feeling that crept up his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Castiel’s expression changed, from fear to anger, anger to confusion, and finally all emotion fell from his face. His huge, bright eyes drifted across the pocked cement of the ceiling, down to the cracked side wall, and finally rested on Dean – who remained, eyes closed, bent down at the bedside.

Cas watched him a moment, this human he gave everything for, shaking in the pale light and unable to open his eyes. The unspoken grief and guilt came off him in waves, and Castiel felt the burning pain of his chest wound flare along with the ache underneath – the hollow place in him where his grace used to be. 

“Dean.”

“Cas, please,” Dean begged raggedly – the same words he’d used in the alley, but this time – this time there was more. This time it wasn’t mercy or reprieve that he wanted.

Castiel blinked, and tipped his head back on the pillow, trying to understand. “You’re not Michael.”

Dean looked up, surprised. He tried to steel himself again, his teeth gritting together. “No,” he confirmed. “I didn’t … But I did kill your douche of a former boss.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed.

“Zach is toast,” Dean repeated, almost smiling, as he stood and leant back against the desk. He rubbed the back of his neck as that tell-tale gleam of guilt returned to his eyes. “It was a trap, and they took Adam. But I didn’t grab ankle for Michael.” This time he smiled, his familiar and slightly mischievous grin. “Looks like that sense you were trying to beat into me finally hit home.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth rose slightly, but it was unnoticeable – to almost anyone but Dean. “In the alley,” Cas began, but Dean cut him off.

“Look, Cas, don’t worry about it, it was…” He tilted his head, considering the right word. “Due.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “It was.”

Dean snorted breathily. “So, I assume I can expect another ass-kicking anytime I look like I’m gonna give up?”

“Yes.” Cas said simply.

He tried not to laugh. “So…”

“So don’t do it again.” Castiel finished, impatiently.

Dean chuckled, “Lesson learned. Believe me.”

Castiel watched him for a moment, eyes unblinking. “I do.”

He smiled fondly at the fallen angel, but as their eyes locked and lingered he felt a sudden awkwardness creep over him – a warmth in his belly that rose from nowhere. He pushed it back down. “Listen,” he said seriously, “we should get you up, I’ve gotta bandage that.” He gestured vaguely towards Castiel’s exposed chest, and moved to rummage through his duffel for supplies.

Castiel watched with curiosity as Dean pulled three bandages from his bag, and turned back to the bed, “Alright, on three.” He instructed, sliding an arm behind Cas’s shoulders. 

Bracing himself on Dean, Castiel waited for the three count and together they managed to pull him upright. The pain was phenomenal, unlike anything he’d experienced before, rising from that empty place inside – and going by the flicker of guilt in Dean’s eyes, it must have showed on his face as he settled into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.

“This might hurt,” Dean prefaced, keeping his eyes focused on the wound in front of him as he uncapped the antiseptic. 

Cas closed his eyes, hands resting on Dean’s shoulders weakly while he worked. The frustration, and the hollow pool inside his belly, gnawed at him – like an itch he could never scratch. This was _his_ body now, this frail broken thing – he was human. His jaw clenched as the fear of that fact threatened to overtake him. 

He jolted forward halfway through the second bandage, a shock of pure agony shooting through him like a hole punched through his stomach. 

Dean stopped instantly, his hands bracing Cas at his sides. “Cas! Jesus. What the hell was that?”

Castiel shuddered violently and screwed his eyes tightly shut against the pain, resting his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. “The – grace … the hollow part. I still feel it.” 

Over Castiel’s shoulder, Dean grimaced at the sick feeling inside, creeping up along with the guilt of knowing who was to blame. Without thinking, he put a hand on the back of the fallen angel’s neck, his thumb gently stroking through his hair. Castiel sighed against him, inadvertently, in relief.

“Cas?” Dean asked nervously, realizing where his hand was. “You okay?”

Castiel’s hand brushed across Dean’s back as he pulled away and righted himself on the bed.

“I will – be fine,” he said finally. “Continue.” He nodded towards the half-unwound bandage still clutched loosely in Dean’s other hand. 

The second and third bandages were fine, with only one more pang of post-grace, just as violent as the last. As Dean worked on finishing the third bandage, Castiel looked around the room, perplexed. 

“Where’s Sam?”

Dean looked up for a moment, then back to what he was doing. “Went to get food – he should be back in ten minutes or so.”

Cas’s visible relief made Dean’s mouth curve into a private grin. His concern for Sam gave Dean peace, somehow. He knew if anything happened to him, even now he wasn’t going to be Michael’s butt-monkey, at least they’d have each other’s backs.

It was somewhere around the end of the third bandage that Dean realized Cas was still wearing Jimmy’s suit pants and shoes. When he finished, he inspected his work, and then looked back up to catch Castiel’s eyes. “We need to get you into better clothes.” 

Some things would never change, Dean realized, as Castiel’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head. Dean chuckled, the warmth inside him spreading further still. He tried to ignore it as he dragged himself to his feet and returned to his duffel, which he’d left on the table.

“You’ll have to make do with my stuff, for now,” he said as he pushed through the bag’s contents looking for his smallest shirt and his old reliable pair of sweats. “We don’t know anybody your size, and Sam of course is an abomination,” – the side of Cas’s mouth quirked into a smile – “so mine will have to do. They’re probably gonna be too big, but we can get you stuff that fits down the road tomorrow.”

Castiel gazed around the room, searching for his shirt and trenchcoat. “I already have clothes.”

“Clothes that aren’t self-cleaning any more, Cas,” Dean reminded him. “They’re not gonna be comfortable to sleep in, either. Here,” he handed the shirt and sweats over, “try this.”

Castiel inspected the clothes for a moment, holding up the shirt and peering at the faded design. “Who are The Ramones, and where do they want me to go?”

Dean rolled his eyes and pushed down the center of the t-shirt, peering over it at the confused Castiel. 

“Just put them on,” he instructed, amused, “rock schooling comes later.”

As Dean shoved his other clothes back into the bag, Cas reached for his belt and managed to undo it without too much confusion, moving on to the pants. 

“Shoes first, genius,” Dean scolded fondly, kneeling to see to it himself. 

Cas considered for a moment as Dean peeled off his shoes and socks, and filed it away for future reference. His troubled expression caught Dean’s attention. “What?” 

“I’m human now.” Cas said simply, by way of explanation.

Dean flinched. “Yeah.” He finished taking care of the shoes and socks. “Welcome to the clu-” he cut himself off, glancing at Castiel with a grimace. “I mean, you’re one of us now. It sucks, I know, but there are some perks.” He pointed to the pile of clean clothes he’d assembled for Castiel before hauling himself up and making his way across the room, keeping his back turned.

Castiel watched Dean’s back, wondering why he turned away. Another human thing, he concluded as he continued to undress. He managed to slide out of the dress pants with relative ease. Getting the new clothes on, however, would be much harder. 

Dean waited, patiently, in the corner. “You decent?” he asked after a several minutes had passed.

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped, realizing that – as usual – it probably didn’t mean what he thought it did. Human colloquialisms were absurd. He considered for a moment what the most logical alternative meaning would be in this situation, and asked, unsurely: “Do you mean, am I dressed?”

Facing the wall, Dean’s brow lifted in surprise, and he smiled to himself. “Yeah, Cas. I mean are you dressed.”

“Well,” Castiel inspected his bare legs, wiggling his toes. He narrowed his eyes at the strange way his feet – _his_ feet – looked in the dim light as the toes waved past each other, causing the shifting bones and tendons to move up and down beneath the skin. 

“Cas?”

Pulled from his trance, he looked up and around, and picked up the grey sweat pants Dean had provided, holding them out. He knew how to put them on, that part was obvious. It was doing it without bending over and tearing open his chest wound or agitating the damage inside, that was the hard part. Getting the shirt over his head might lead to the same problem. He had no idea of his body’s limits, now. “I don’t know how to get these on without potentially causing further damage.”

Dean fidgeted for a moment, but didn’t turn. “You got anything on?”

“Undergarments and bandages,” Cas answered. 

“Boxers or briefs?” Dean asked tentatively.

“I don’t know what that means,” Castiel replied impatiently, looking over at Dean’s back once again. This whole human thing was going to get very, very frustrating.

Dean tipped his head back, exasperated. “Son of a – okay, but you tell Sam about this and I will make you ride in the trunk. And that trunk? Used to be Sam’s ass.” 

When Dean turned around, Castiel was watching him, one eyebrow raised, and a crooked smile on his lips. The expression made him stop in his tracks, and kept the slow-creeping warmth inside him fueled. It was something he never expected to see on that face, but it belonged to Castiel all the same: like it had always been there, just underneath the surface. 

He shook himself again when he realized he was staring, and he felt his cheeks burn for a moment as he put his mind to the task of figuring out how to get Castiel clothed. The universe was, at least in this case, merciful. “Boxers. Awesome.”

Cas lifted up the pants again, looking from them to his legs, and back up. The chill of the air made the skin on his legs prickle into gooseflesh, and he shuddered from the sensation. Dean stopped in his tracks. “Whoa, what? Pain?”

“No, just – a new experience.” He watched his tingling leg carefully, waiting to see if it would happen again.

Dean let out a breathy laugh as he shook his head. “You think that’s good? Man, have I got a lot to show you.”

Castiel’s face was serious for a moment. “You will?”

Dean was bunching up the t-shirt from its hem, oblivious. “Will what?”

“Show me?” Cas asked, his expression one of caution. 

Dean stopped, and caught his gaze. His face softened, and the sadness behind his affectionate smile came only from the disbelief that Cas would have to ask. That he would believe there was any chance in hell they’d leave him behind.

“You’re coming with us. I mean, are you kidding me? Homeless, raised as a soldier, deadbeat dad, and stuck smack bang in the middle of the apocalypse?” Dean held up the shirt, and his eyes were bright as he smiled. “You sure as hell sound like a Winchester to me.”

Again, the slightest of smiles bent the bow of Cas’s mouth in response, a kind of triumphant affection in his eyes. He lifted his arms, letting Dean slide the bunched up shirt over each of them, and watched Dean as he focused on the shirt. He counted the freckles across Dean’s nose, noted the scar that was barely visible beneath one of his eyebrows, and the crease in his lower lip. All the things he’d seen, but never truly _seen_ before. As the warm, worn cotton fell over his face, down his shoulders and to the bandages below, he breathed the smell of fabric softener and the unmistakable underlying scent of _Dean_ that flooded his new human olfactory senses. 

Dean tugged at the sides of the shirt until he was satisfied, and once he was, he winked his approval and reached for the sweats.

Arranging them on the floor, he grabbed each of Castiel’s calves, one at a time, without hesitation and guided them to the holes of the pants, lifting them up over the under-shorts until they reached his hips. Dean’s hands were warm, and Cas closed his eyes briefly to revel in the new sensation. When he opened them again, he caught the flash of red dance across Dean’s cheeks as he ran his fingers around the waistband to catch the cord, and pull it tight to stop the too-big pants from falling down. 

As he watched, Castiel was flooded with a strong, spreading heat in his chest and stomach. Not painful, like before, but pleasant, and a little strange. But then, being human was simply that; strange. 

“There,” Dean stepped back suddenly, nodding. “Now you’re good. Should be comfortable enough to crash in this, at least.”

Cas pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed as he struggled to decipher the expression. 

Dean noticed, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Sleep, Cas. You should be comfortable enough to sleep.”

Castiel thought about it for a moment. “I haven’t ever – slept. How exactly do you do it?”

Dean’s brow lifted as he struggled to find the right words to explain, and pulled back his hand to scratch at his chin. “It kinda comes naturally. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Sam should be back soon,” Cas looked at the door, as if expecting it to open on command. “Where am I going to – ‘crash’?”

Realization dawned across Dean’s face, and he moved his scratching to the back of his neck as he tried to think of a decent answer. 

After a moment, he turned and patted down his pockets, making sure his wallet was easily accessible. “I’ll get another room for Sam,” he decided, and pointed to the fallen angel still standing by the bed. “You stay here. I’ll be back in five. Just – don’t go anywhere.”

Castiel was confused at Dean’s unnecessary repetition. “I won’t.”

Dean nodded awkwardly, and slinked out the door. He was in and out of the front office in two minutes, and couldn’t stop himself from just about power walking back to the room. When he unlocked the door, a part of him hesitated for fear of finding an empty room on the other side. It was Cas’s groan that made him push violently through and slam it shut, dropping the new room-key on the floor as he raced to his side. 

Cas was almost doubled over, clutching his stomach, face drawn in pain. Dean caught him before he hit the floor, and eased him back onto the bed as carefully as he could manage.

Castiel gasped as he hit the mattress, and the guttural noises that tore from his throat were as painful to Dean as any day in hell. 

“Cas?! CAS?!” Dean was bent over the bed, arms still around Cas’s shoulders. “Hey, stay with me, come on!”

The pain took longer this time to die down, but when it did, Castiel slumped in Dean’s arms, too weak to move. 

“God damn it, Cas. I … don’t know what to do,” he searched the fallen angel’s face. “ _What am I supposed to do_?”

“Just – stay,” Castiel’s eyes drifted open, his voice cracked, and smaller than it had ever been. “Please.”

Dean nodded, the frightened child in him receding. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel managed a weak smile, and Dean quickly checked the bandages for bleed-through.

“You’re okay,” Dean said, as much to himself as to Cas.

“Dean?”

He looked up at the sound of his name, stronger now than before.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“It’s not your fault.”

Dean’s mouth set in an angry line. “The hell it isn’t.”

Cas blinked, slowly, and tried to continue. “I told you once. I’m a soldier. I chose this-”

“Because I freakin’ convinced you to,” Dean shot back, cutting him off. “I’m the one who dragged you onto this bandwagon, who convinced you turn your back on your own family. I – _I_ did this.”

Castiel’s face showed no sign of anger, but a glimmer in his half-open eyes betrayed his true age.

Dean paced, tearing off his flannel shirt and throwing it over the broken chair. He tugged absently at the edge of his undershirt, lost in thought and his own self-loathing. 

“Dean,” Cas repeated.

This time, he couldn’t look at him. Dean’s frame sagged visibly, and he hung his head, letting the anguish wash over him and the tears start to pool beneath his lashes. “Yeah, Cas?”

“Come here.”

Dean turned, stunned at the authority in Castiel’s tone. Somehow, weak as he was, he’d pulled himself up into a sitting position, legs draped over the edge of the bed – and his expression held the same power as his voice.

Cautiously, Dean walked towards him, and started when Castiel’s hand shot out, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him, with alarming strength, down to his knees.

“What the-”

“Enough.” Cas cut him off, that familiar spark of authority and control alight in his expression. 

Dean stared, alarmed and unsure, into the huge blue unblinking eyes that bore down on him. But it wasn’t anger he saw, this time, or the dizzying power that used to loom behind those eyes. There was something new in its place, a kind of fatigued affection. 

“I gave everything,” Castiel began, “for you. And you? You break, and you give in, and you falter. And then you change your mind. You rise, again, and you act like the man I always thought you could be, and _you_ make me believe, when there is _nothing_ left to believe in,” he broke off, his frustration showing through. “You make me _believe_.”

“You are to blame for many things, but this is not one of them.” Cas rested his hand on the side of Dean’s head in absolution, and felt him tremble beneath his palm. “I gave _everything_ for you, because you, Dean Winchester, are going to save the world. And you disrespect me, and you fight against me, and I forgive you. And you give up, after everything I sacrificed for _you_.”

“And, I _forgive_ you,” Cas pressed his lips to Dean’s forehead, exhausted, and closed his eyes, “why won’t you just _let me_?”

Dean flinched bodily, eyes closed, into Cas’s faded shirt as long and wiry arms encircled him, clinging tight to his broken, shaking frame. 

He didn’t know how long he was tangled in Castiel’s arms, or when it was they lay back against the padded quilt of the motel room bed, but he felt the long fingers at the back of his neck, the warm breath in his hair, the thudding heartbeat under his ear. Castiel’s heart, now. 

The sound sparked the heat inside, that long burning feeling in his chest and his belly. This time he was sure he didn’t want to push it back down. 

After a long moment he pressed a kiss to the shoulder beneath him and lifted his head. Castiel’s eyes searched his face, intrigued and with a strange kind of peace behind them, a calm Dean had never seen before. 

With slow, deliberate movements, he leaned down, and carefully pressed his lips to Castiel’s own, tasting the salt of his own tears now gathered at the edge of his mouth, and mingled with a taste he couldn’t define.

He pulled back, searching the surprised blue eyes warily to ensure he hadn’t overstepped. After a moment, he leaned in second time – and Cas watched him closely as Dean claimed his mouth again, longer this time, but still careful and deliberate, savoring every second. 

A soft, needy noise escaped Cas’s mouth as their lips parted, and this time his eyes betrayed his confusion. Dean quirked his head, “What is it?”

“Something,” Cas murmured, “a feeling. I don’t know how to explain.”

Dean smiled, and pressed his palm to the smooth, exposed and unblemished skin near Cas’s belly where his shirt had hitched up. “It’s here?”

Castiel nodded, his eyes questioning. “And,” he said, lifting a hand and pressing it to Dean’s chest, “here.”

Dean’s expression was unreadable, for a moment, his eyes still glassy.

“What is it?” Castiel asked, his breath hitching as the sensation intensified.

Dean’s lips pressed together in a crooked line that betrayed the smile underneath, “it’s one of the perks.”

Cas’s face held his confusion for a moment, before he shifted his eyes sideways, questioningly. “This is what love feels like?”

Dean answered by tracing Castiel’s mouth with his own, but only for a moment. A fondness crept into Cas’s eyes, and he shivered as Dean’s hand pushed under his shirt, stroking the line of his hip with practiced hands.

“Can I tell you something,” Dean asked, a wry smile on his face, “if you promise not to tell another soul?”

Castiel, remembering that day in the park, let his brow crease in amusement. “Yes.”

Dean’s eyes shut as he searched for the words. “You gotta know, I-”

Slipping a hand behind his neck, Castiel drew Dean down to him, cutting off his words and taking everything he could from the kiss as he bruised their lips together impatiently. He reveled in the feeling, the heat in his chest and his abdomen, stretching out and thundering inside – the taste of the salt and fading whiskey on Dean’s tongue. Finally, reluctantly, he pulled away, leaving Dean breathless and aching.

“I can’t do this without you.” Dean finished brokenly, breathlessly, as his eyes closed. He rested his forehead against Castiel’s. 

Cas dragged a thumb across Dean’s lower lip, and smiled. 

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”

 

*

 

Sam came back well over an hour late, and gritting his teeth. After the order was wrong the first time, he really didn’t mind so much. The sixth screw up was the one that kinda bugged him, just a little. From there it all went downhill, really, and he had a feeling he knew exactly who to blame for the food problems, and the car breaking down, the herd of cattle that crossed the road for twenty straight minutes so he couldn’t drive through, and the three times he missed the same goddamn turn.

He finally pulled into the Westcourt car park and idled to the lines in front of room twelve, hauling himself out of the driver’s seat (without a head injury, for once) and gathering up the bags of food – extra for Cas, just in case. 

Although, there seemed to be a lot less bags than he remembered. 

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried to calm down. Peaceful thoughts, he decided. He was _not_ going to drive all the way back to Bobby’s and get his hands on a big-ass shiny angel stake. He was _not_ going to carve himself up a smartass, tricky, feathered _bastard_.

“Aw, Sammy, come on,” the voice came from the passenger seat, just as it had earlier that night, “you gotta admit, the cows? That was funny.”

“You SON of a-”

“Bup-bup-bup!” Gabriel held up a hand in warning. “First, technically, I don’t have a mother. Second, you were just about to call God a bitch, dude. Think about it.”

Sam was sure that if he’d been on the demon-juice, his glare could have shattered the windows. 

Gabriel, who was still smiling, patted the driver’s seat. “Come on, back in. They’re busy.”

Sam’s expression changed from enraged to confused. “Busy? With what?”

“Aw, I’ll tell you when you’re older, pumpkin. Now get in the car, and eat your salad.”

“No,” Sam countered angrily, but the tone of his voice unintentionally made him sound like a defiant twelve year old. 

Gabriel laughed. “If you get in now, I can guarantee you a concussion free reentry, or,” he held up a finger, “you can go on in there, and then put another notch in your skull when you _do_ come back after your brother effectively scars you for life.”

Sam pondered for awhile, free hand balled into a fist in the pocket of his hoodie, scuffing his shoe and looking every inch the teenager again as he weighed the options.

With a knowing grin, Gabe waited, arms folded, as he watched Sam deliberate.

After a beat, Sam looked up warily. “And my salad hasn’t been violated?”

Gabriel laughed aloud, throwing his head back. “Oh, oh,” he recovered after a moment, wiping away a tear. “Not by me, but judging by the look of that diner, I can’t guarantee you anything prior to my interference.”

Sam cast one final glance towards the hotel room, which was now dark inside, and with a huff finally decided to climb back in the car. With the door shut, he stopped a moment and smiled. 

“See? What’d I tell ya? No concussion,” Gabriel confirmed, tilting his head and presenting Sam with a small Styrofoam package.

“Fair enough,” Sam conceded, and flipped open the lid to his salad, digging through the paper bag for a fork. “So, what did I miss while you were deliberately stalling me at every turn?” Sam asked around a mouthful of lettuce. 

Gabriel settled back into the seat, elbow perched against the window. “Not a lot. Girl talk, mostly.”

Sam grinned at that, unable to stop himself. It was rare he had someone on his side of the joke. He remembered, then, what Castiel had looked like strewn across the mattress. “Is Cas okay?”

Gabriel lifted his brow, turning to Sam. “Concern for the pretty boy angel? Well,” he waved his hand around to gesture non-specifics, “not really an angel, but still.”

Sam’s brow knotted.

Gabe stared at him for a moment, then sighed when he realized Sam wasn’t going to catch up. “Castiel’s human now. He fell, brainiac. Keep up.”

Sam swallowed a huge portion of salad at once, feeling the stretch and pain in his throat and grunting to try and ease it. “What?!” he spluttered.

“He’s one of you, now,” Gabriel clarified, almost sadly.

Sam’s face was still pinched in confusion and alarm as he looked through the windshield to the darkened hotel room. “How? I mean – how can that happen?”

Gabriel was irritated now. “How? I’ll tell you how, you chuckleheads kept sending him on suicide missions and burning up the grace he had left. He can’t get it back, once it’s gone it’s gone – he’s _cut off_ , remember? Heaven doesn’t exactly send out care packages.” His voice was louder, and the actual emotion had begun to push through the overly controlled exterior. “I mean, seriously. You boys keep expecting him to fly up to the sun for you every time you need him to help try and avert your sad little apocalypse, and it didn’t even occur to you that one day he was gonna fly too close?”

Sam swallowed, and looked down at his salad. He’d stopped eating, and instead just pushed the lank contents around with his fork.

“You care about him.” Sam said delicately, looking at the angel in the passenger seat out of the corner of his eye.

Gabriel laughed then, but this time there was no actual mirth in it. “You know what, kid? I don’t care about anything. Except pie. You got pie in here?” He dug around in the brown paper bag for a moment, but, in a small moment of bravery (or stupidity, later he couldn’t decide which), Sam reached over and snatched it away.

“I think you do care.” Sam stuffed the bag under the gear-stick and slammed his salad lid shut, pivoting in his seat to face Gabriel properly, “I think you care just enough to save your brother, and take him back to the people who care about him and can show him how to be human.”

Gabriel glared, and the side of his mouth twitched. “I’m sorry, what’s that? You love Japanese game shows with large threatening junk-hammers?”

Sam lifted his brow, unapologetic. “Fine, if you don’t want to admit it. But you know. And now, so do I,” he finished smugly.

Silence fell, and after a long while of simply staring defiantly at the Archangel in his passenger seat, Sam relented and leant back into his chair. “Look, I know you want to stay out of all this,” he consented. “And that’s fine. Can’t say I blame you.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, waiting for Sam’s point.

“But, can you at least tell me – will you at least do that, and stay out, if you’re not going to help us? Because the last thing we need is another enemy.”

Gabriel’s expression softened, for a moment, before breaking into his usual mischievous grin. “Can’t promise anything, Sammy Sasquach, but I sure as hell ain’t battin’ for the devil – if you’ll excuse the pun.” 

Sam laughed. “Mind if I ask why?”

Gabe’s expression fell into one of genuine astonishment. “He hates cake,” he shook his head, “I mean, seriously? What is that? Who doesn’t like _cake_?”

The force of Sam’s laughter just about shook the car. When it finally tapered off, Gabriel grinned at him. “See, you get it.”

Sam nodded, a huge grin practically splitting his face in two. “Ahh, oh,” he put a hand to his stomach, trying to dull the ache from laughing too hard. “So what are you gonna do now?”

“Mostly? Try not to think about what’s going on in that hotel room.”

“Oh, dude, no,” Sam’s eyes slammed shut, and he rubbed his brow fiercely. “Too far.”

Gabriel grinned. “You didn’t see it coming?”

Sam opened his eyes, his face still pinched like he had a bad taste lingering in this mouth. “I guess, I don’t know.”

“They’re practically the same person, when you take away the angel mojo,” Gabe nodded towards the room. “If they’re gonna survive this thing, they need each other.”

“What do you mean they’re practically the same person?”

“Oh, come on, Sam.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “The father issues in that one room alone! The abandonment, the sad need to sacrifice everything for family? Sound familiar?”

Sam shook his head slightly, intrigued.

“They spent their whole lives following daddy’s orders, and they both ended up the same. Alone. Stuck on the outside edge of a broken-ass family, with too many wars to fight. And all because they truly believed that _daddy knows best_.” He flicked a frustrated and dismissive hand towards the roof. “You know how the story goes. Daedalus demands…”

“… Icarus abides.” Sam finished. “I get it.”

Gabe’s eyes fell, then, to stare blankly at the dashboard. “And we all know what happened to him.”

As Gabriel’s hand found the door handle, Sam realized he was about to be left alone again. “Where are you going to now? I mean, what are you gonna do, if not fight?”

Gabriel shrugged, hands splayed. “Who knows? Keep quiet, mostly. Ride this thing out.”

Nodding, Sam tucked his half-eaten salad back into the paper bag. “Well, uh. You know. You should check back sometime. Post apocalypse. If we’re, y’know … still around.”

Gabriel’s eyes saddened for a moment, but only a tiny moment, before the façade went back up flawlessly. “Of course. Can’t let you boys off that easy. Too much fun to be had.”

As he popped the door and slid backwards out of the car, Gabriel tipped an invisible hat and winked his goodbye like a promise.

“Hey, uh, Gabe?”

The archangel at the door stopped, and bent down, looking through the open side window. There’s was that expression again, the one that Sam couldn’t quite figure out. It almost looked like – affection? 

“Uh,” Sam looked down at his hands, “thanks. You know. For Castiel.”

Gabriel lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sam’s replying bitchface made him laugh. He tapped a hand on the open window frame. “See you round, Winchester,” He said, his face out of view. “Oh, and kid? Do me a favor?”

“Yeah?” Sam craned his neck to see out the window. 

Gabriel paused, as if struggling to get his words out. “Just, uh – don’t go to Detroit.”

He couldn’t see Sam’s puzzled expression, but he knew it was there. 

“Alright,” Sam agreed, “but you do me a favor, in exchange?”

Gabriel leaned down this time, and peered back through. “What’s that?”

Sam bumped a fist on his knee, nodding slightly in Gabe’s direction. “Stay away from the sun.”

A tiny smile creased the side of Gabriel’s mouth and he spread his hands, palm up, “I always do, kiddo.”

As the flutter of wings sent a gust through the open window, Sam sighed heavily. The night was silent but for the irritating hum of the vending machine, and he was alone again.

Well, as long as he was stuck out here, he figured, he may as well enjoy it – and promptly gathered the crumpled paper bag, diving his hand in to find the piece of pie he’d bought for Dean.

There was none, he discovered: instead another motel room key, and a piece of paper, folded perfectly to resemble a long, white feather. Baffled, Sam unfolded the edges slowly, and read the message penned inside. 

Then, for the second time that night, he laughed until his insides hurt.

The paper read;

_Godzilla,_

_Thanks for the pie._

_\- Gabe_


End file.
